And the flax's stonelike weight
Needed to be told;
But no longer was its state
Valued as of old.
When I took it to the weaver,
Something felt I start,
And more quickly, as with fever.
Throbbed my trembling heart.
Then I bear the thread at length
Through the heat, to bleach;
But, alas, I scarce have strength
To the pool to reach.
What I in my little room
Span so fine and slight,—
As was likely, I presume—
Came at last to light.
THE YOUTH AND THE MILL-STREAM.
[This sweet ballad, and the one entitled "The Maid of the Mill's Repentance," were written on the occasion of a visit paid by Goethe to Switzerland. "The Maid of the Mill's Treachery," to which the latter forms the sequel, was not written till the following year.]
YOUTH.
Pretty brooklet, gaily glancing
In the morning sun.
Why so joyous in thy dancing?
Whither dost thou run?
What is't lures thee to the vale?
Tell me, if thou hast a tale.
